


so let me take you by the hand / and lead you on this dance (control)

by dulcepericulum (keziahrain)



Series: hold your head up [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Belts, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove is Bad at Communicating, Blow Jobs, Bottom Billy Hargrove, Condoms, Confused Steve Harrington, Consent Issues, Dom Steve Harrington, Impact Play, M/M, Obsession, Past Abuse, Power Dynamics, Soft Steve Harrington, Tenderness, Top Steve Harrington, Under-negotiated Kink, gratuitous 90s references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keziahrain/pseuds/dulcepericulum
Summary: Steve gives Billy a lot of thought and attention from afar, and then up close.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: hold your head up [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043124
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	so let me take you by the hand / and lead you on this dance (control)

**Author's Note:**

> Part three of the series; probably makes the most sense if read in order but you do you. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Additional info on consent issues tag: as before, they both want to be there! Doing all these things! With each other!! However, they are still v v bad at talking about it and have no idea what they're doing. And neither understands that kink can be a tool for processing trauma in a healthy way - esp Billy. If I continue with this series, I want for them to learn! 
> 
> Also, Nancy is pregnant in this fic. Heads up if pregnancy is a sensitive topic for you. <3 
> 
> Title from "Control" by Janet Jackson.

On Monday evening, Steve fights a deep urge to call Billy twice in as many days. He knows that’s weird and needy. 

Instead, he calls the person who first taught him that sometimes he’s weird and needy.

“Nancy’s in the bathroom, but I know she’d love to talk to you.” Jonathan, his usual self: contained but mellow. “Can she call you back in five?”

A half hour later, the phone rings.

“Sorry!” Nancy’s frustrated. “Everything takes longer than it should these days. And I already need to pee again. I can’t wait for this parasite to give me back my body!” 

She’s 36 weeks pregnant. 

“I get it,” he assures her.

Despite having many months to adjust to the news, Steve remains astounded that Nancy and Jonathan are having a baby. A bit wistful, recalling his utter conviction at eighteen that Nancy and he would, in Billy’s words, get married and “breed.” 

But he knows – truly – that everything worked out for the best. Jonathan is plainly better suited to this entire situation. 

“No, you can’t possibly get it. But thanks for being supportive. It’s good to hear your voice,” says Nancy. “How are you?”

“You first.” The last 36 hours represent a bewildering detour from Steve’s regular life. Nancy’s familiarity will be a comfort. 

He loses himself in her stories about pregnancy (long and gross), her magazine job (inadequate maternity leave), Mike and El (still doing their grad student thing in Boston), and Ted and Karen (already perfecting their all-American grandparent personas). 

“So what’s happening with you?” she asks. 

“Uh, well. Not much.” Steve never has news to report. 

Not counting the recent uptick in secret gay sex, his status quo hasn’t changed for the last five years. 

Same old Steve Harrington. Family bought his way to college. Still works for his dad. Peaked in high school. 

An ancient shame ferments in him, that fear of disappointing or embarrassing or boring Nancy. Or his parents. Or any of the various people who love him for no obvious reason. 

Yeah, Steve wishes he had something to tell Nancy, something noteworthy about his life. More than that, he wants to tell her a _particular_ bit of news. He wants a witness – even one kept partially in the dark – to the _Steve-shattering_ things that have just happened. 

This muddle of needs upsets his brain, and it promptly coughs up the one thing he’d hoped to hold down. 

“Well, ah, something interesting did happen on Saturday night,” he hears himself saying. Then stops. 

“What?” she prompts. 

“You won’t believe this, but, um, I ran into Billy Hargrove. Of all people. Turns out he lives in Chicago.” 

Nancy is duly astonished. “ _Billy Hargrove_! Really? I haven’t thought about him in years! Where did you see him?”

“A bar,” he says, knowing that she’ll never ask or assume more. To Nancy, there’s only one type of bar patronized by Steve, and it’s not a gay one. 

“How did he look?”

“Good! I mean, um. He ditched the mullet.” Steve’s grateful she can’t see him. “Sounds exactly the same, though. Talking to him was like going through a time warp.” 

“You _talked_ to him? But he beat the crap out of you!”

As if he could forget. “Yeah, I know. I was there. It’s not a big deal. I mean, it was then, but it’s not now? We actually had a good conversation. I think he had a lot going on in high school. He’s…grown up a bit.”

“If you say so,” Nancy says, not fully on board. “The rituals of manhood are so confusing. You go from trying to kill each other to hanging out at the bar.” 

Steve chuckles at that. She’s not too far off. “Men are from Mars, Nancy. You just wouldn’t understand over there on Venus.” 

“Don’t start with that crap,” she laughs. 

“I can’t help it. My mother has a copy of the book in every room of her house. I think she’s trying to trick Dad into reading it..” 

“My mom too. My dad probably thinks it’s a romance novel.” Pause. “But, wow. Billy Hargrove. I still can’t believe it. How _is_ he?” 

“He’s gay.” 

Steve knows right away what he’s doing: he’s coming out by proxy. This is a test run. How will Nancy react? He knows she’s a feminist and open-minded and all those things. But they haven’t really talked about anything…directly _gay_ before. He’s never had a natural way to bring the topic so directly into conversation.

Until now. 

He’s just gathering data, is all. 

The line is silent for several beats.

“Nancy?” 

“I thought I heard you say that Billy Hargrove is gay.” 

Steve’s heard this tone from her before. It’s her “ _this is an emergency, just stay calm_ ” voice. 

“Yeah. Well. That’s because I did. Say that.” Steve tries to keep his own voice steady. Like he doesn’t care one way or another. 

“That’s…what? Steve! He was so…tough in high school.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Steve asks, a bit defensively.

“I don’t know, he was such a bully!” Nancy responds, also defensive. “He seems like the type who would’ve picked on kids for being gay.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Steve concedes. “But, Nance, I’m serious. He told me he’s gay. I think he knows he was a bully, and he feels, like, shitty about it. And he…it isn’t an excuse, and he didn’t talk about it that way, but I learned he was raised by a bully. His dad’s a real asshole, the scary kind. Billy’s whole ‘bad-boy lady-killer sex-god’ thing? It’s like…self-protection.” 

“Oh, jeez. I suppose this explains a lot,” Nancy says thoughtfully. “That’s a really, really hard secret to keep in small-town Indiana in the 80s. I’d probably be angry all the time too.” 

_It’s not exactly an easy secret now either, even in the big city,_ Steve thinks, even as Nancy’s compassion touches him. 

He’s still not ready to take the plunge and come out himself – he’s not even sure what words he would use! – but he’s feeling more hopeful. 

Like such a conversation will be possible. Someday. 

Then something occurs to him: “Hey Nancy? Would you keep this just between us? That he’s gay?”

Nancy sounds surprised. “Sure…but, do you think it’s a secret? He told _you_ out of the blue after ten years.”

Steve winces internally. It wasn’t as out of the blue she thinks, given that their reunion took place in a Boystown bar. Nancy is right about one thing, however: Billy did insist, more than once, that he doesn’t care who knows he’s gay. 

“That’s true,” Steve acknowledges. “But the more I think about it, the more I think it’s not my news to share. I’m not sure what the consequences would be for him, you know?” 

The moment he articulates it that way, it feels true. Whatever Billy may say out loud, there’s something else happening at a deeper level. 

“That makes sense. I won’t say a word, except to Jonathan. Spousal privilege. But you know he’s a vault.” 

It’s still amazing to Steve, after all these years, how Nancy softens when she understands something. 

“So please tell me about Billy,” she suggests brightly. “I’m so interested! Does he have a – a boyfriend? What does he do for work?”

It dawns on Steve that he doesn’t know the answers to these questions.

“Um. I’m not sure. I’m _pretty_ sure he’s single, though I guess I don’t know that for certain. I definitely don’t know what he does.”

“He told you he’s gay before he told you his job?” Nancy sounds confused, unable to imagine a situation in which sexuality is more relevant than profession. 

“Yep,” Steve answers. “Things got personal real, ah, fast.” 

“Yeah. Wow. I guess you can’t make this stuff up.” And: “I wonder if he knows Robin.” 

“Who?”

  
“Robin Buckley. She was a year behind us in school. Band geek? My mom heard from Stacy’s mom that Robin’s gay. She lives in Chicago too.” 

“Nancy, all the gay people in Chicago don’t know each other.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” she protests. “They have the Hawkins connection too!” 

“I’m guessing not the same crowd.”

“True.” 

Steve tries to picture what Robin looks like, but all he can summon is a shy blur in a desk. “What’s Robin doing in Chicago?”

“I think mom said she’s working at the Art Institute. Like in their community education program or something?” 

Steve squirrels that piece of intel away. 

He’d really like to know another gay person in Chicago. 

  
  


///

  
  


Steve manages to make it through Tuesday without calling Billy. Goes to work, pushes paper around, grinds through the tasks left in his inbox by his admins. 

It’s impossible to concentrate. He probably fucks up a bunch of stuff which his staff will catch and discreetly clean up later. 

Steve is well-liked in the office, especially by those below him on the ladder. It helps that he’s low-maintenance and not a sexist, predatory asshole. His habit of giving generous holiday gifts to everyone in the department can’t hurt either. 

It’s no secret that Steve is the CEO’s son. His approach to this inescapable reality is to cause as little trouble – and as little excitement – as possible. 

Steve Harrington. Reliable but not ambitious. Accessible but conflict-avoidant. Just an easy-going, laid-back, friendly, popular guy. It’s a persona he’s cultivated since he was child. 

He’s having an unusually hard time getting into character today. 

The biggest issue: he’s perennially half-hard under his desk, lost in filthy daydreams about the gorgeous asshole who dethroned him, kicked the shit out of him, and gave him a permanent forehead scar in high school. 

After lunch, to his admins’ evident surprise, Steve requests no interruptions, closes the blinds on the interior windows, and locks the door. He informs them that he needs to focus on an important project. 

_Billy on his knees, gagging on Steve’s cock._

_Billy over Steve’s knees, Steve smacking his bare ass and fingering his hole._

_Billy and Steve in the dark back room of a club, dance music pounding through the walls, Steve pounding Billy against the wall to the same rhythm._

_Billy tied down to the bed, on his back, writhing, weeping, begging, Steve planted facedown between those thick thighs, fingers digging into Billy’s flesh, holding him in place, Steve putting his mouth on Billy’s cock, licking and sucking and almost gagging until the cum spills down his throat..._

As quietly as possible, Steve leans back in his executive chair and shoots his load into a wad of paper towels from the men’s room. He’d be mortified if he wasn’t so relieved. He wipes up, stuffs the evidence deep in his trash, and ties off the plastic liner. 

Then he cracks one of his office windows, just in case. He gazes out over the cityscape, letting the spring breeze cool his face, contemplating: 

_Am I, like, a sadist?_

_Is this kind of fucked up?_

_What the hell did Billy Hargrove do to me?_

_What the hell do I want to do to Billy Hargrove?_

  
  


///

  
  


Steve calls Billy on Wednesday evening. After four rings, the answering machine answers. Billy’s voice, gruff and low, directing him to leave a message. 

Obsessive questions about Billy race plague Steve as he waits for the beep, variations of which have been looping continuously in his mind since they parted ways in the alley. 

Is Billy at work? Or is he at another bar, putting the moves on some guy? Or is Billy right there by the phone, not picking up, screening calls? What is his apartment like? Does he bring guys home? 

Could a guy be with him right now? Will they listen to Steve’s voice fill the room? 

Did Billy mean it when he said that he goes out looking for guys to whip him with a belt, tie him up, hold him down while they fuck him? 

How often does he do that? Why does he do it? What exactly happens? Has he ever been…really hurt? 

Billy would _hate_ that Steve has these questions. He wants Steve to think he’s tough, that he can take anything. 

Steve thinks back to Billy’s antagonist routine from high school. Not just the infamous fight, but everything leading up to it. The unrelenting focus on Steve. The dumb rivalry. The taunts. The posturing. The peacocking. 

He feels like he’s re-watching a movie that he didn’t understand as a child, but now everything’s retroactively clicking into place. 

Billy had been trying to _impress_ Steve, back then. 

What Steve had experienced as bullying and outright assault had likely also been an unhinged, sidelong, extremely fucked-up Hargrove version of _flirting_. 

Billy had wanted his attention. _Badly_. 

Ten years later, Steve is finally giving it to him. 

Steve’s beginning to realize that has a lot of sway over Billy; more than he ever would’ve guessed. It’s an unsettling epiphany. What has he done to deserve this kind of power? 

It makes him feel oddly tender toward Billy. 

While also wanting to throttle the deranged asshole. 

Fucking weird. 

His message gets straight to the point: 

“It’s Steve. I want to see you again.”

He leaves his number and hangs up.

  
  


///

  
  


On Thursday, as always, Steve attends the sales meeting. 

He’s wired up, waiting on Billy’s call. He’s fairly certain Billy will call him back. He’s equally certain Billy will make him wait. 

As usual, Sam Cochran runs the show. Steve’s technically higher up in the ranks, but Sam is older and has lots more experience, so Steve tends to defer. He wishes that Sam treated admins and colleagues more respectfully and was more diplomatic with clients, but what does he know?

Now he’s parked in his usual spot at the big meeting table, watching Sam throw his weight around with the team. He’s seen it a million times, yet something is different today. 

Steve is different today. 

He wants Billy to call. He _told_ Billy to call. 

Billy will call. He knows what’s good for him. 

_Wherethefuckdidthatcomefrom._

_Focus_.

Sam’s monologuing about corporate strategy bullshit; customer engagement and revenue projections and resource allocation, blah, blah, blah –

Andrea, a young junior exec, is watching him like a hawk. She shakes her head slightly at one of Sam’s claims about the numbers and what they mean. It’s clear she wants to call bullshit. She does that abortive half-jump people do when they’re trying to call on themselves to speak. 

Sam sees her and makes a point of talking right over her. He’s not going to let some little lady disrupt his flow. 

Normally, Steve would let it go. Stay in his corner. Maintain the peace. 

But today he’s got this itch under his skin. 

_Andrea’s really fucking smart_ , Steve thinks, not for the first time. _Probably the smartest person in this room. If that douchebag would just shut up for one second._

He briefly flashes back to the way he reached out and grabbed Billy’s wrist in the bar, keeping him there – how Billy _let_ him – mere seconds into their re-acquaintance. 

It had felt so natural to do that. 

“Hey Sam?” Steve interrupts, startling everyone in the room, including himself. He doesn’t speak loudly or forcefully, but everyone immediately turns to the CEO’s son. Even Sam. “I’d really like to hear what Andrea thinks about this.” 

  
  


///

  
  


Friday is a long slog. 

Sam, furious about yesterday, avoids eye contact with Steve in the office kitchenette. Steve senses, easily, that the admins are gossiping about him. It’s all vaguely reminiscent of high school, when there was always some buzz about _King Steve_ and his friends in the hallways, and whoever had the inevitable bone to pick with them. 

In other words, not actually that big a deal.

Steve leaves work knowing his evening will be spent at home, waiting for Billy to call under the guise of being tired after a long week, and tries not to feel totally pathetic. 

When he enters his apartment, the answering machine is blinking and for a moment hope catches in his throat. 

The sound of his mother’s voice has never been so anticlimactic. She instructs him to call her back at a Las Vegas hotel number, which he does. His dad’s presenting at a conference; as per usual, his mom is keeping an eye on him. 

It sounds miserable. 

After he hangs up, Steve thinks of his parents, their loveless marriage, still limping along after all these years. He wonders if his parents were ever really happy, and why they’re still together. He used to think they stayed married for his sake, but really, they barely parented him in person. 

Maybe it’s force of habit that binds them together? Fear of loneliness? Or maybe they simply don’t acknowledge how bad things are? 

He thinks of himself and his own delusional thinking in the wake of Barb’s death. He’d been so committed to the idea that Nancy was the love of his life, and that _everything_ was absolutely _fine_. 

It all goes to show, he supposes, that denial is a Harrington family tradition. Steve’s trying to be more honest now, if only with himself, even if he’s not ready to be honest with the rest of the world. 

And if he’s being honest, this much is true: Billy Hargrove has completely taken over his brain. 

After ordering Chinese delivery, watching the entire TGIF lineup, jerking off twice, and taking a shower, he admits defeat and goes to bed. 

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” he mumbles into the pillow before falling asleep. 

  
  


///

  
  


Steve sleeps late and wakes up on Saturday in a bit of a funk. 

“Well, fuck you too,” he snarls at his empty apartment. 

It’s a slow-moving day of catching up on adult chores and activities: opening mail, paying bills, doing laundry, grocery shopping, going to the gym, and glaring at the silent telephone. 

After an early dinner of leftovers and _Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman_ (Sully’s kinda hot), Steve takes a brisk evening walk. He needs another break from this neverending standoff with the phone. 

It’s turned cold and windy again. Typical Midwestern early spring – can’t decide what to do with itself. 

Steve re-wraps his scarf, buries his hands in his coat pockets, and reluctantly considers the possibility that Billy may not call. 

Steve’s not an expert or anything, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that Billy’s conflicted about some things. He’s been sending mixed signals. 

Whatever Billy wants or needs, maybe Steve isn’t the right person to give it to him.

Steve’s sex life – including with guys – has always been rather vanilla. It’s never occurred to him to be otherwise. 

Before Billy, he _never_ would’ve thought to push a sex partner around, give them orders, _spank_ them. It’s still hard to imagine doing _any_ of those things to the women he’s dated. 

Steve sort of knew kinky stuff like that existed, he just didn’t think it was his thing. 

And then, last week, Billy Hargrove crashed back into his life, with his pretty eyes and his sturdy body, pulling Steve into a game he thought he didn’t know how to play. 

It’s mind-blowing how much Steve has enjoyed himself. How curious and eager he is to do more. 

But it’s also a tad disturbing. Alarming, even. He has this creepy sense he might look in the mirror and not recognize his reflection. 

Just thinking about what he and Billy have done, and what he wants to do, makes Steve’s adrenaline spike, like there’s danger right around the corner. 

Like the world has completely turned on its axis. 

Like nothing will be the same ever again. 

It’s all too similar to how Steve felt that one time he discovered that monsters are absolutely, 100%, horrifically, in-your-face-and-want-to-kill-you real. 

There had been no turning back from that. 

Everything changed. How he saw life, and how he saw himself. 

Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, Steve longs for the innocence of not knowing.

  
  


///

  
  


As Steve turns back onto his own block, he makes out a familiar shape leaning against his building. Arms crossed, cigarette perched in mouth, head tipped back, streetlight carving those graceful features out of the darkness. 

He looks like a movie star. 

Butterflies swarm Steve’s stomach. He’s been in rehearsals for this scene all week, but he’s suddenly forgotten the lines. 

  
“Billy?” he asks, as if there’s any real question. 

“Harrington,” Billy mumbles around his cigarette, not moving. 

For a good long minute, no further words are exchanged. They stand there in the shadows, facing each other, Billy studiously avoiding eye contact. 

Now irritation burns in Steve. Would it kill Billy to act like a human being now and then? 

“What are you doing here?” he demands, feeling a little ridiculous. 

At last, Billy flicks his eyes toward Steve’s, removes the cigarette from his mouth, flicks it to the ground, and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. 

“Said you wanted to see me.” The _duh_ goes unspoken. 

“I also left my number,” Steve points out. “Think about using it?”

Billy shrugs. It pisses Steve off, which feels exactly the same as being turned on. 

“Come on,” Steve orders, walking toward the door. 

Billy follows him into the building. Their second silent and tense trip through the lobby and up the elevators. The first time, it was nerves that prevented Steve from looking at Billy. This time, the anxiety remains but it’s laced with something new: a keen sense of purpose.

Steve’s _trying_ to stay in control. He _wants_ to be in control. 

In control of himself.

In control of the situation.

In control of Billy. 

_What does that really mean?_

When they get to his apartment, Steve’s more composed than last time. No fumbling with the keys, no slamming around. He just opens the door, closes it gently behind them. They don’t immediately collide with each other or with the door, but hover just inside. 

“Can I take your coat?” Steve offers, needing something to do with his hands. 

Billy shakes off a leather jacket not really appropriate for the temperature outside. Steve takes both their coats and hangs them in the closet. Billy lingers by the threshold, his body expectant, his face bored. 

“Sit down on the couch,” Steve says, gesturing. 

Billy appears faintly amused to revisit that piece of furniture, but he’ll find no sign of last week’s shenanigans there. Cold water, mild soap, and air drying did the trick. 

As Billy saunters over and sits down on the plush cushions, Steve tries to imagine his apartment through an outsider’s eyes: the expensive furniture and appliances, the contemporary art, the trendy home decor straight out of some glossy catalogue. 

“Digging the yuppie bachelor pad,” Billy comments, as if on cue. “Didn’t really take the time to appreciate it before. Did your ma decorate this place for you?” 

“She needed something to do,” Steve answers truthfully, wandering closer. “You want a drink? I’ve got whisky. Gin. Beer.”

“Nah,” Billy says. “I don’t really drink that much. Only when I’m out. But you get something.” 

It’s like gathering breadcrumbs of information. He sits next to Billy. The space between them feels vast, uncrossable. 

How did he do this before? 

“If you won’t, I won’t. Do you want a glass of water? Or I could make coffee. Decaf.”

“I’m fine, Harrington.”

“I told you to call me Steve.”

There’s a worrisome twinkle in Billy’s eye. His eyelashes are cartoonishly long and thick, face clean-shaven and smooth, lips pink like a doll’s. He’s still not making eye contact with Steve, his gaze roaming around, restless. 

“You got it, _King_ Steve.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant, but OK,” Steve tries to laugh, like they’re bantering. Like this is fun. 

This doesn’t feel easy, though. It feels more like Billy’s giving him a hard time, or is _having_ a hard time himself. 

Maybe one and the same. 

So Steve tries a different tack: 

“It’s… it’s really good to see you.” 

At last, Billy glares directly his way. Those blue laser beams first locked on Steve over ten years ago; sometimes, it feels like they’ve never gone fully away. 

“It’s really good to see me?” Billy repeats in a low growl. “Are you for real? Fuck off, man.” 

“What?”

“You don’t need to say that shit, is all,” Billy continues, a tiny smile forming. “I’m not Nancy Wheeler.” 

“Uh, no, you fuck off!” Steve attempts ‘light teasing’ and fails. “You don’t call me back. Then you show up with no warning to give me shit? For, like, expressing a nice thing toward you? Like a person? Wow. I’m having such a fun time. Are you going to give me a concussion next?” 

“Man, chill out, you take things too personally,” sighs Billy Hargrove, President and CEO of Taking Things Too Personally. 

“Dude, what is your damage?” Steve stops. Takes a deep, centering breath, like in yoga warmup. Tries again: 

“Just… I did something to upset you. I said I was glad to see you. Is that not allowed or something?” 

Billy leans forward, elbows on knees, like he’s ready to bolt. Once again, his cologne is too strong, abrasive on Steve’s thoughts. 

“You can say whatever you want, Harrington. You call the shots. Just don’t lie to me about it. We can be honest about this. You don’t have to promise me shit or tell me I look pretty. You’ll get some either way. I’m _real_ easy. So drop your Harrington ‘boyfriend experience’ _bullshit_.”

Billy is more like Nancy than he realizes; tactical application of the _b-word_ still cuts Steve to the core. 

He hears something in it that he fears very deeply. The insinuation that despite all his efforts, all his intentions, all his hopes, all his good faith attempts to change, and all his genuine care and affection for the people in his life – Steve Harrington is, in the end, just a poser. A fraud. A counterfeit human. 

Dumb, meaningless _bullshit_. 

Steve’s jaw locks. When Nancy had flung that label at him in high school, he’d felt so caught out. So deflated. So fucking _hurt_. 

Now he’s just quietly furious: righteous anger pumping in his veins and launching him off the couch. Next thing he knows, he’s staring down and Billy’s staring up. 

_He could get used to this view._

  
“I am so close to throwing you out that door,” Steve threatens softly. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t even mean it, has no intentions of carrying through. 

His budding erection would never allow it. 

But he wants to convey how _serious_ he is. Continues, sternly, “You are on thin ice with me. Do you understand?” 

The tiny, annoying smile Billy’s been nursing spills into a full-blown, shit-eating grin. 

“Damn. You sound like my dad.” He’s impressed. “Next you’re going to tell me I’m asking for it.”

And just like that, Steve remembers that he knows exactly what Billy’s damage is. 

How could he forget? 

“I’m such an idiot,” he groans, scrubbing at his face. 

The rage seeping out of him. 

What is left behind? 

A beat of silence, then: 

“You’ve been trying to provoke me,” Steve states calmly. 

Billy cocks an eyebrow, doesn’t say a word. 

“You’re trying to wind me up,” continues Steve. “So what was the plan? Get on my nerves ’til I punch you in the mouth?”

He gets no response; Billy’s simply watching him with cool, half-lidded eyes. So the words keep streaming out of Steve: 

“Is that what it’s like when you pick up guys? You piss them off so they slap you around a little? I bet it works every time. You’re _such_ an asshole. It’s an art form with you. And you think what a guy wants most is an asshole to beat up. You think that’s what you’re _good_ for. You keep trying to convince me, anyway.” 

Steve’s not sure why it bothers him so much.

“Yeah, you have it all figured out, Billy,” he goes on, struggling not to raise his voice. “You know what you’re good for, and you know what I’m good for. Everyone knows _Harrington’s_ a predictable moron. You think if you push the right button, I’ll put you on the ground, because that’s what you need. Well sorry, Billy, but I am _not_ like your dad.” 

And there it is – Steve must’ve found this conversation’s line in the sand and sailed right over it, because Billy’s up from the couch like a shot, making straight for the door. 

Those old monster-fighting instincts still come in handy, those little voices always telling him to be prepared to fight. It’s not only about fighting _against_ things – sometimes it’s about fighting _for_ things too. Those lightning-quick reflexes put Steve at the door first, ready to catch a big, writhing armful of Billy Hargrove. Steve summons all his strength and pushes them back into the apartment, past the couch and toward the bedroom. 

Billy allows Steve to herd him, but he’s not making it easy. Moving Billy feels like swimming through the ocean. Steve thinks he’s in charge of the direction, but he might get carried away at any time. 

They land on his silly canopied bed. _Thanks, Mom._

The grappling has transitioned into a frantic sort of making out. Steve has never wanted to simply inhale someone before, never wanted to tear their hair out with his hands before, never wanted to grip them so tightly the air gets caught in their throats… 

Not really, not _really_ , but it _feels_ like that with Billy, like Steve’s lust is too strange and fierce to be expressed in the typical ways. 

Steve imagines he could worship Billy with his hands and mouth for hours, kissing his movie star face and neck, reaching under clothes to grasp and squeeze at warm skin. Billy receives and lobs back everything he’s given, holding on as if for dear life, his hot breath desperate and ticklish in Steve’s ears. 

Still, as a sailor must right his capsized boat, Steve ultimately gets his bearings and finds himself on top, pinning Billy’s wrists to the bed. They’re face to face, groin to groin, Billy on his back and Steve straddling those compact hips. Breathing heavily together, their eyes locked, Steve can read the commingling of arousal and fear in Billy’s face easier than any book. 

“Billy, listen,” he says, firm but kind, like he’s gentling a horse. “I mean this. You don’t need to piss me off.” Spontaneously, he bends down to kiss Billy’s forehead, murmurs in his ear, “I’ll do it anyway, I’ll give you whatever you need.”

And the body under him immediately arches and bucks, like those words are the scariest or most infuriating of all, so Steve stretches out over Billy, covering him with his weight. They’re closer in size now, Billy more lean and Steve more broad; yet he’s barely keeping Billy anchored beneath him. 

“Just calm down,” Steve manages to say. “You can settle down. Tell me what to do.” 

Billy mumbles something that Steve can’t quite hear. 

“What?” he demands. 

Billy stills enough to reestablish eye contact. His expression instantly hearkens back to their fight at the Byers’ house so long ago, after Steve had thrown the first punch but before Billy had retaliated and escalated. In the in-between, Steve hadn’t been sure if Billy would burst into tears or laughter. It turned out to be the latter, back then. He seems to be leaning toward the former, now. 

“You’ll pussy out,” Billy grumbles. 

“Try me,” Steve bites back. 

Billy considers, then goes on. 

“That’s a classy belt you got there, Harrington. Italian leather?” 

“Probably,” Steve answers, understanding. “My mom got it for me.” 

“Of course she did.” Billy looks and sounds exhausted. 

Steve doesn’t hesitate after that.

He gets up and stands alongside the bed, reaching over to unzip Billy’s jeans and then guide him from his back over to his front. Then, with an efficient movement, he yanks the tight denim down. A tremor runs through Billy’s entire body. Unlike last time, his ass is not naked but hugged by classic white briefs, like two slopes of fresh-fallen snow. 

Steve’s hard-on is leaking. 

He undoes his buckle and slides the belt from his waist. 

“Why do you need this, Billy?” he asks, folding the leather in his hands. He has no idea what he’s doing. 

“You don’t get to ask that,” Billy argues into the mattress.

  
That seems unreasonable, so Steve swings and brings the belt down, hard, on his ass. 

Billy lets out a muffled cry, burying his face in one arm, the other arm instinctively flying back to cover himself. With his free hand, Steve grabs Billy’s moving wrist and pins it to the bed. 

Then, with his dominant hand, Steve lashes the belt again. And again. And again. The belt’s fat _thwap_ fills the room, along with their gasping breaths. Billy continues to twist under the belt, not trying to escape but not taking it without a fight either. His ass vibrates with each strike on his underwear; Steve imagines the hidden flesh turning deeper and deeper pink. He aims a few hits to the thighs, raising small welts and drawing stifled whimpers. 

Steve doesn’t hold back because he doesn’t think Billy wants that from him. 

After about two dozen strikes, Steve notes it: the moment that Billy yields. It’s like a drop in barometric pressure, or a sudden shift in the breeze. Difficult to see but palpable. Suddenly, Billy’s not fighting anymore. It’s an act of surrender: his body completely relaxes, the tension drains away, and a messy sob is wrenched out of him. 

Steve continues the thrashing and watches, in awe, as Billy’s eyes overflow with tears, soaking those thick lashes and streaking down his face. 

He’s never seen a man cry like this before. 

It’s unspeakably beautiful. 

As if possessed, Steve drops the belt on the floor. He reaches for Billy’s jeans and tugs them from his legs, tossing them aside, and then carefully, so carefully, eases his briefs down and the rest of the way off as well. 

He then climbs back on the bed and straddles Billy’s thighs, poised on his knees right over that perfect ass, which looks sunburned. Scorched. But as Steve had hoped, the briefs absorbed the belt’s harsh edges, preventing serious damage. 

Steve unzips his own fly and takes out his dick, hard and seeping. He takes himself in hand and gives a few harsh pumps, and that’s all it takes, he’s coming on Billy’s ass, which Steve painted stinging and red. Absurdly, he imagines his jizz cooling the hot skin down. 

For a drawn-out moment, Steve just admires his handiwork, listening to Billy’s quiet crying. 

Then he coaxes Billy over so he’s facing up again.

Billy makes a small sound of protest as his tender flesh makes contact with the bedspread, but his dick reports for duty, erect and ready for action. It resembles an anatomical drawing in a biology textbook – proportional, pink, circumcised, very little hair. 

Steve leans over Billy’s prone figure to open the drawer of his bedside table and remove an unlubricated condom. This action brings their faces close together for a moment, so close they could kiss, but Steve draws back quickly and repositions himself at Billy’s crotch. He opens the condom and unrolls it over Billy’s erection. 

A quick glance up reveals that Billy is tearful and disbelieving. Like he can’t believe _this_ is Steve’s next move. 

For the first time since they got in the bedroom, Steve is unsure. 

“Uh, can I...?” he gestures vaguely at the cock in front of his face. 

Billy widens his eyes and sniffs audibly. 

“I will literally murder you if you don’t.”

Well, that’s a relief. Steve gets comfortable on his belly and wraps his arms around Billy’s hips in an awkward sort of lying-down hug. Billy twitches like he might be nervous but Steve doesn’t give him time to think about it, taking a deep goofy breath like a snorkler then swallowing Billy as deeply as possible in one go, appreciating the resulting shocked noise. 

Steve has really worked on his oral technique and stamina since he started hitting the bars, and he’s proud of it. He’s learned he can take a lot of dick before it gets to be too much. He just loosens his throat and fucks Billy with his mouth; nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. 

Meanwhile, Billy flexes his fists, tenses his legs, makes little sounds of distress. It sounds like he’s reached that level of arousal that resembles panic, that makes a person feel like they’re being turned inside out. He smells briny and human, with a sharp touch of cologne. (Of course the guy perfumes his dick.) Blowing him is like a deluge: Billy Hargrove in Steve’s face, in his mouth, up his nose, hands full of flesh. 

Steve would happily drown. There are worse ways to die. 

He pauses to breathe. He can’t see Billy’s face but his whole being is trembling. His hard-on looks red and dripping through the condom, almost painful. 

“Steve...please…”

So Steve gets back to it, cupping and squeezing Billy’s balls while he’s at it, and that seems to be the final straw, the tipping point, the push that sends the rollercoaster over the peak and rushing down the track, because now Billy is _coming_.

It would be obvious even without the cum spurting into the condom, because Billy’s muscles – abdominal, gluteal, quad – are rippling. 

Full-body earthquake. 

It’s insanely hot.

And Steve.

Steve _needs_ to be inside Billy the next time that happens. 

“Fuuuuck,” Billy moans, caught in the aftershocks. “Oh, fuck.” 

Steve crows; he can’t help himself. He feels like he scaled a mountain or some shit. 

_I claim this land for Steve._

He removes the sodden condom and ties it off, sends it in the general direction of the trash can. 

Then he hauls himself up so he’s lying next to Billy, who’s way too fucked out to protest when Steve gathers him in his arms from behind. They fit together like clasped hands. It feels scandalously cozy and good.

They lie there for a long time, half-awake, half-dozing.

“My dick is snuggling with your ass,” Steve whispers happily. 

“Sure,” Billy responds. Steve ignores him, pulls him tighter.

“Hey,” he says, after another stretch has passed. “What do you do for work?”

There’s a long silence. Steve begins to think that maybe Billy won’t answer by pretending to be asleep. 

Then:

“I’m on the landscape crew at the University of Chicago.” 

Steve smiles, satisfied. 

“Cool.” 


End file.
